


In Which Zim Gets Mad that His Nemesis Doesn't Want to Ravish Him

by Sauntervaguelydown (DesdemonaKaylose)



Category: Invader Zim
Genre: Alien Cultural Differences, Bad Sex, Dark Comedy, Good Sex, Ice Cream Parlors, M/M, Oral Sex, Past Rape/Non-con, Weird anatomy, i think, it's hard to define rape when your species doesn't even have a concept of consent
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-04
Updated: 2019-10-30
Packaged: 2020-10-06 02:03:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,610
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20499089
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DesdemonaKaylose/pseuds/Sauntervaguelydown
Summary: another day another cultural misunderstanding. Dib is trying to be a good person, and Zim's idea of "good" and "person" are about a shmillion lightyears removed from this planet.





	1. why yes, I am happy to see you

**Author's Note:**

> so much for writing an even remotely sexy fic, I say, publishing this egregious self indulgence

The problem came swiftly on the heels of a failed plot. Panting and scratched up and uniform shredded, Zim crashed into the lawn and tumbled to a stop amid the grass, facing the sky. The sentient doomsday machine hit the ground somewhere a few miles away and lit up the sky in orange smoke as it imploded. He had a thought at that moment that he had _ perhaps _ miscalculated the necessary amount of free will blockers for an automaton that size.

When Dib tackled him, jammed a knee down into the crux of Zim’s pelvis, and used the leverage to hold him there against the lawn, it shouldn’t have done anything more than bruise his nether regions. Sure he was tired, a little concussed, but that shouldn’t have made a difference under normal circumstances. Dib had pinned him to the ground countless times over the last six years with no meaningful consequences. 

Although he didn’t know it at the time, there were three factors contributing to the Problem:

  1. Dib Membrane had quite recently finished his final growth spurt and was now three inches taller than he had been six months ago
  2. During his PAK’s recent software updates, his paradigm algorithm had assigned Dib the identity slot reserved for a Nemesis, incidentally tagging him as Irken kin 
  3. There was actually so little left of Zim’s uniform leggings at this point that the whole pelvis section had torn open as he hit the ground

In reaction to being pinned underneath the full weight of Dib in the smoke and the smell of burning fuel, blood and adrenals pumping, something clunked into place like a metaphorical key in a latch. Zim stiffened, overtaken by autonomous arousal, and heat suffused his body.

“What-” Dib said. Something had moved against his leg, just the smallest twitch. He pulled back, switching to the flat of his forearm to pin Zim by the chest, and brushed away the shredded remains of black leggings. _He_ was thinking of hidden weapons and bizarre alien parasites, and not at all of the situation actually unfolding beneath his fingers.

The alien flesh there, which he had always taken to be as flat and featureless as the rest of Zim’s insectoid body, was moving. In fits and starts, first the twitching tips and then the plump insides, four delicate petals of flesh began to fold back. Zim hissed, recoiling. The petals folded back until they revealed a lazily pulsing entrance, which gaped wide enough to easily admit two or three fingers.

Dib’s eyes were as wide as the rims of his glasses. “Zim,” he said, “what am I looking at-?”

“Pitiful dirt child,” Zim snarled, “not even advanced enough to recognize a breeding channel when you see one. I can’t _ believe _I let you get taller than me, I should have cut you off at the kneecaps when you were still a smeet.”

Dib swallowed. “So that’s analogous-” he snatched his hand back from the petal that he had been hesitantly stroking the tip of. “Wow. Bipedal specieses, huh?” he said, nervously. “I guess we’re all kinda just... like that.”

Zim grudgingly relaxed back on the ground. He would have preferred not to do this again, but he was willing to put up with it given that it was only Dib here and not someone who might tell someone who might tell someone who might tell the Tallests that he had let an alien get this close in the first place. He didn’t mind Dib as much as he might have minded other interested parties under the same circumstances. In truth, it did not matter whether he minded or not, and he was also well aware of this fact. It would happen either way; better to get it done with.

He steeled himself. And yet, for several grinding seconds, absolutely nothing happened.

“Well?” he said, impatient despite the fact that his body was only growing looser and warmer the longer he lay pinned. There was a persistent distracting feeling of slick beading inside himself.

“Oh!” Dib said, jolting. “Sorry I, uh, I’ll just get off you if you’ll promise not to take my head off once you’re loose…”

“Eeeuh?” Zim said. He squinted one eye at the admittedly arresting specimen of primitive physiology above him. “What are you blabbering about? Get on with it. I have a very busy schedule full of schemes to plot, I don’t have time to lay around all day waiting to get bred.”

Dib experienced for the first time in his life the completely simultaneity of visceral horror and raging arousal. His skin flushed; his brain filled with improbable abominations of biological science.

In fact, Dib need not have worried. There had not been an Irken capable of organic breeding in nearly six thousand years, although the mechanisms, such as they were, remained. The verb itself was at best a holdout from a less mechanical era, as Zim’s english translation program struggled to find a verb which was neither a flagged for vulgarity nor a euphemism.

“Well?” Zim said. “Get your breeding spike out.”

“I’m not,” Dib said, “I, we’re on your front lawn?”

“_And?” _ said Zim, who had on previous occasions been taken in front of his squad at boot camp, the prior Tallest, and more than once an entire restaurant full of dinner patrons.

It might be useful at this time to explain one of the more practical aspects of Irken social hierarchy. Zim would have had trouble articulating this in the same way that a fish would have trouble articulating the concept of water, but there were certain acts of deference owed to Taller Irkens by Lesser Irkens which were taken for granted by either class. These courtesies became more strict as the difference in height between any two individuals increased. Another invader such as Tak, who was only a few inches taller than Zim, would not have expected as much deference as a general or a cook, such as Sizz Lorr. 

Sizz Lorr in particular, with his callous and demanding temperament, had very much liked to throw his weight around with Zim.

What Zim would be having trouble articulating, because it had never needed to be articulated to him as such, was that any Irken as tall as Dib was would be well within his rights to demand Zim’s assets at any time, in any place. Sizz Lorr in particular had enjoyed exercising his rights at least once a day, sometimes in front of an audience and sometimes in his office, privately, where he could fully indulge himself. It had been his preferred form of reprimand when Zim was mouthy, which had been all of the time. Hard thrusts and the insulting weight of a hand on Zim’s back or abdomen, as if he expected Zim to try and wriggle free, were the pointed reminders of their disparate ranks. His fat breeding spike left Zim in a permanent state of dull discomfort, the ceiling of the smaller Irken’s channel bruised from the constant pounding.

Although Zim had not liked Sizz Lorr at all, and had certainly not enjoyed being bred by him, he had accepted it as part of the job in the same way that a mascot suit full of hot oil was part of the job. That is to say, it was an indignity he couldn’t do much about short of wholesale escape. Which he had eventually managed. Twice.

He was dimly aware that there was a difference between being used by someone he reviled and by someone he wanted to impress. Dib, although Zim would have denied this, fell much more in the second category than the first.

When he had been a scientist in the energy labs, Tallest Miyuki had asked for him once. That had been a proud day. She could have had anyone in the lab, and she asked for him. It wasn’t a disrespect to be asked for by a _Tallest_, not for a proud Irken patriot. Although neither Purple nor Red had ever asked for Zim, which was - fine, good - _ great_, even. They clearly recognized his worthiness of character in spite of his _ biological _ height, so - so really it was a sign of respect. But he would rather have been used by them than by Sizz Lorr. Sizz Lorr had only ever made him feel sore and miserable and infuriatingly degraded.

Dib made a distressed face. “Why would you even _ want _me to--”

“You’re the one who pinned _ me!” _ Zim shouted, slapping his palms against the ground in irritation. “You obviously want Zim, and who wouldn’t, Zim is a fine invader far superior to your own drooling idiot species, so let’s _ go!” _

“There’s been a misunderstanding,” Dib said, struggling to take his eyes off the slowly curling and uncurling petals, each of them plumping with blood until they had become the delicate color and firmness of a succulent. 

Zim could not and would not conceptualize of being _ unwanted _ by a Taller, even if that Taller was also his infuriating human nemesis. Even Sizz Lorr had wanted to use him, blunt and loathsome and nasty as he had been. All grease and goading smug insults and _ oooh _ Zim could just launch him into an acid pit for daring to imply that the entire empire wasn’t in absolute _ mourning _ waiting for him to return from exile. He had done his best to forget the things his former boss had told him while he was bent over the counter in the back of the kitchen, cleaning rag squeezed in hand, teeth gritted. Like most things that didn’t support Zim’s extremely specific understanding of reality, those had been discarded as irrelevant, deceitful, and unimportant.

Likewise, Zim discarded the suggestion that Dib might not want him in favor of the assumption that Dib was just too stupid to know how to work a breeding spike.

“Here,” he said, and grabbed for the fastening of Dib’s black jeans. “Idiot worm baby - I’ll do it myself -”

Dib jolted when the heel of Zim’s palm ground past his growing hardness. He stared, slack jawed, at the events unfolding underneath him. In no way had he anticipated this ending to his day when he got out of bed that morning. 

Zim fished out the rapidly swelling cock with a critical eye. It was certainly alien to him, although the smaller size would be a relief after such _ extensive _ familiarity with Sizz Lorr’s disgusting knob. It had a pleasing amount of give to it, a velvety soft dermal lining. Yes, he could deal with this.

And then Dib slapped his hand away.

“Hey!” Dib said, “You could at least ask me first!”

Zim bristled, metaphorically. “You want me to _ beg _ to be bred by your inferior flesh spike? Zim would never!”

“What? No, I mean,” Dib said, hastily shoving himself back into his jeans, “you ought to ask me if I want to or not, instead of just _ grabbing _me.”

Zim glared at him, and then rolled his hand in the direction of Dib’s hips. “Your spike is distending, of course you want to. Why would I waste time _ asking?” _

Dib grimaced. “Okay, I don’t know how your alien junk works, but for humans it’s not something that only happens on call. I don’t get a say in when it does that. It’s just a weird biological…thingy, it doesn’t automatically mean I’m okay with whatever you want to do to me.”

Zim’s left eye twitched. “You will not even let Zim touch your inferior body? Is Zim to merely lie still and be disgraced?”

“No! No-” Dib raised his palms, making a face. “Why do you _ want _ to touch me, anyway! You hate me!”

“You are Tall. You are on top of me. You want for satisfaction. Zim will not be known as-” he scowled, searching his language banks for the right word, “-frigid. I am an elite invader! I do not need to be held down for breeding!” 

“I’m not gonna hold you down for anything, especially _ that!_” Dib snapped, recoiling physically from Zim. “Except, um,” he amended, “world saving stuff, I guess.”

“I am not resisting,” Zim pointed out, saying it slowly, like he would have for GIR. A thought occurred to him, then, as a blurry memory of a drill sergeant who had liked to pinch and twist even the most obedient soldiers’ petals until they were squirming and kicking to break free. He frowned. “Unless you desire resistance…?”

“No!” 

Zim was, at this point, feeling very annoyed. Here he was, open and warm and ready, and all his idiot nemesis would do about it was shout nonsense at him.

“I mean jeeze,” Dib said, deflating. “I know we’re enemies and all, but I’m not a _ rapist_. I’m the good guy!”

Zim scanned his banks for _ rapist_. “One who engages in sexual contact with an unwilling victim,” he said, prodding at the concept with his tongue. Was _ he _ the unwilling victim in this scenario? But he was a good Irken! The pride of his species! He would never deny a Taller the use of his channel, not even Sizz Lorr, whom he would happily have murdered given the chance. Although - well it hadn’t been _ denying _ so much as _ avoiding, _ but surely that was within acceptable parameters. He had other work to do in the restaurant. Schemes to scheme. It wasn’t as if he had _ resisted_. He just… had taken pains not to be available. 

Was he not being accommodating enough? As squishy and brown as Dib was, he was at least a counteragent worthy of the enmity of an Irken invader, a considerable thwarter of wiles, and a passable intellectual rival. To be recognized by Dib would be… acceptable. Zim could live with this, as long as word didn’t get around that he’d let an alien wiggle into his kinship chart. Anyway, he was maddenly curious about that soft little spike analogue Dib had. 

Zim let out a long suffering sigh. “I don’t see why it matters whether I’m willing or not, you’re entitled and you initiated. You must want this - who _ wouldn’t_, Zim is a magnificent specimen sure to please even the most superior tastes, let alone a gawky dirt monkey like you.”

“So you _ don’t _ want me to… do you.”

“Fshh, of course not, _ puh-lease_.” Zim wiggled his exposed antennae through the rent wig. “Zim? Desire the carnal attentions of some barely evolved rodent? As IF!”

“O...kay,” Dib said. He reached forward, and for a moment Zim brightened with anticipation, but then his hands only brushed the ragged remains of leggings back into a more modest alignment. He pulled Zim’s shirt down a little bit, covering the worst of the delicate channel that rippled for more of his attention.

Zim drew back warily from the fussing. “What are you doing?” he demanded. The fabric felt strange against his tender exposed insides. And Dib’s hand had departed _ much _too quickly.

“I don’t really understand what’s happening, but I’m sure not gonna have sex with you in public, on your front lawn, in the _ dirt_,” Dib said, sitting back. “Especially if you just think you - have to? For some reason? Like I said, I don’t really get any of this. It’s been a confusing few minutes.”

Zim looked from Dib down to his resettled uniform and back again. “But,” he said. “But you - do not want Zim?”

Dib rubbed at the back of his neck, looking anywhere else. “Let’s just focus on the part where I made your doomsday machine blow up and forget about whether I hypothetically want to investigate your extremely weird alien insides with my mouth, okay?” 

Zim twitched an antenna.

Dib got up, brushing off his knees and hunching into himself. “Sorry I touched your… um. Those things. I didn’t know what they were. I wasn’t trying to feel you up. I can just… uh… I’ll send you some of those stupid community health flyers about consent and then we can try and have this conversation again. You want a hand up?”

Zim eyed the hand that Dib extended between them. “...Yes.”

Once they were both on their feet, tugging uncomfortably on their clothes and scraping at the grass with the tips of their shoes, Dib coughed awkwardly into his fist.

“That is,” he said, “I mean, if you wanna do something some time when we’re not trying to kill each other, we could go get a milkshake or… do whatever it is you guys do on dates. You have my number.”

Zim blinked at him several times in rapid succession.

“....Okay,” he said.

Dib brightened a little bit. “Okay?”

“Okay,” Zim said, a little more firmly. “I, uh. I think GIR has a coupon book.”

“Neat,” Dib said.

Zim nodded vaguely, but he was already several steps deep into the beginning of a thought. His brain skipped ahead like a bored reader paging through a 700 page novel, skimming forward to the Good Part.

He would also like to investigate, he thought, the effect of a Dib-mouth on his superior Irken insides.


	2. In Several Sweet Bites

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> >if I was invited to have sex with someone I would simply ask him what he wanted me to do instead of pretending like I knew shit about fuck.  
>RIP to every teenager alive but I'm different

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let it never be said that flattery doesn't get you anywhere.  
Edit: this is blanket permission for anyone who wants use this anatomy for other fic projects: you're welcome to it, go wild you beautiful freaks

The first thing that a stranger arriving on the earthen continent labeled in Ms. Bitters’ textbooks as “Murica” needed to know was that the greatest crime one could commit was not liking the local food—or worse still, eating it in a slightly unusual way. This could be weaponized; for example, Zim had once turned an entire auditorium against his earthen nemesis by proclaiming that the Dib ate snick-snack chocolate bars by taking a bite out of the middle. What a day that had been!

In light of that, Zim was very careful to clearly and enthusiastically proclaim his love of “ice cream” any time the subject even seemed to be relevant, despite having never dared subject his amazing Zim mouth to the frosty horror. This was why the proposed “ice cream date” filled Zim’s pockets as much with trepidation as reasonably frugal coupon deals.

Zim took his seat gingerly in the maltshop, having dodged the whirling assault of the wheeled attack drones with their silver platters and earned access to the coveted corner booth by virtue of his valor and perseverance. And he announced as much.

“You mean the waiters?” Dib said skeptically.

One of the whirling dervishes deposited a frothy milk drink on the counter of a nearby booth. Zim eyed it narrowly.

“I have been a waiter,” Zim said, “_that_ is not a waiter. Waiters are not fitted with armaments.”

“They’re just roller-skates, Zim,” Dib said. “Literal toddlers wear them.”

“What are they _for_, then, if not increasing the efficacy of a ground troop assault?”

“For fun?” Dib made a face at him. “Don’t aliens have toys?” 

Zim made a face back. “Why would you make body modifications that are not combat ready?”

“They’re not _welded _on to—” Dib stopped in the middle of his sentence as a pock-faced female rolled up with a flip notebook in her hand.

“Order now,” she said, narrowing her sleep-deprived eyes. The circles underneath them were deep enough to qualify as terraforming on her extremely fertile skin-farm.

“Pop rock Science™ soda, Generic Cola Flavor, extra acid, extra static, shock it with a car battery if you’ve got one,” Dib rattled off, settling his cheek into his hand. Then he looked at Zim. “What do you want? I’ll buy, as long as it’s not anything evil.”

Zim, who upon accepting the invitation to “get shakes” had spent much more time thinking about the Dib’s mouth than the things which typically went into it, said: “….liquid.”

Dib just looked at him.

Zim doubled down. “One standard human date liquid,” he said to the roller-human, folding his hands primly in front of him. “Small. I am watching my figure.”

“Yeah I just bet you are,” Dib muttered, handing his menu over to the roller-human. “Non-dairy,” he told her, “or else he’ll melt from the stomach on account of being an alien who can’t process meat or meat byproducts.”

“I know what lactose intolerance is,” the roller-human said, and folded the menu up underneath her arm. “One strawberry sherbert shake for your hideous green date, coming up.”

The human skated away. A sense of omen fell upon the table, like the first shade of a deadly gas cloud over a battlefield.

“So you got those pamphlets, right,” Dib asked, warily. “You read them?”

“Yes, yes,” Zim said, waving him off. “I am briefed in full.”

“So we’re clear that this only happens if you definitely, explicitly want it to, right?”

Zim rolled his eyes. “I am aware of the need for this verbal contract of ‘consent’,” he said.

“And you know you can take that back at any time,” Dib pressed.

Zim squinted at him. “That is not a very good contract,” he said.

“I don’t wanna do you if you’re not into it,” Dib explained, and tapped the table twice for emphasis. “I can autopsy you at any time in a platonic way if I want to, this is different.”

“You’d like to think it would be that easy,” Zim said. He examined the backs of his claws. There was no reason for doing this, except that it made Dib extremely irritable. “I would like to see you try.”

“Next week,” Dib said, “you just watch me.”

“Maybe I will!”

“Alright!”

“Okay!”

A pair of drinks were slapped down on the table between them, froth bubbling up and spattering over the plastic checker pattern. They both settled back into the vinyl of the booth.

“Alright then, I’ve got some questions,” Dib said, flipping open a booklet labeled _Case_ _Notes_ on the table in front of him. “First of all, I think we should begin by establishing whether this is a ‘date’ or not.”

Zim nodded. “Yes, let us establish the operative conditions. I, Zim, your most magnificent nemesis and sworn enemy, have agreed to participate in this primitive courting ritual according to the customs of your people in order to complete the breeding which was interrupted earlier this week, also according to the _aggravating_ customs of your people.”

“Please don’t call it breeding,” Dib said, although he was scribbling furiously in his notebook all the same. “I’d rather have my eyeballs scooped out than get knocked up with some xenomorph larva. And I’m way too young to be a father. I haven’t even got a degree yet.”

“You should be _grateful_ to bear the spawn of Zim!” Zim retorted, slamming his fist against the tabletop. “Such a modification to your useless self would be an improvement! Perhaps you would then better understand the superiority of the Irken Invader!”

“Is that what this is?” Dib demanded, jabbing his pencil at Zim. “Some kind of mating program? Turning out half-breeds to serve your empire against their own kind? Huh? Are you planning on shackling the earth to your depraved need for cheap labor and broodmares?”

“No! Although that would be an _excellent _plan and you have no business coming up with it!”

“And why should I believe you, huh? Give it up Zim, your word choice already gave away the game!” The pencil jabbed a little closer, wiggling in midair with Dib’s enthusiasm.

Zim smacked the pencil out of his face. “Irkens are sterile, Dib-idiot!”

They stared at each other.

“Okay,” Dib said, returning his attention to the notebook. “So let’s start with the basics. What does sex mean to your species?”

Zim hesitated.

The question seemed to expect one single answer, but the answer was an uncomfortable tangle of still more answers and half-answers. He did not particularly like to examine the differences between the various others he had serviced in his lifetime. Tallest Miyuki, who had called him _cute little scientist_ when she set him up on the laboratory table, stroking his antenna absently as she took him—that blasted drill sergeant, who had delighted in making it as miserable as possible every time except, inexplicably, that one time a week before boot camp ended, when he had moved slowly and fallen asleep hilt-deep inside of Zim, holding him as tightly as a soft toy. The laboratory supervisor. Sizzlorr.

Each time, regardless of Zim’s comfort or enthusiasm, he had been expected to lie down and comply. Be responsive, but not too aggressive. Be still, but not too still.

Dib leaned into his straw and sucked on his soda without breaking eye contact. His hands were still scribbling observations.

“Okay,” he said, when he was done sucking down bubblefroth. His mouth was shiny wet. “Never mind that. What do _you_ want out of sex?”

His shiny wet mouth was proving a significant distraction. It took Zim several seconds to realize he had been asked another question; he scrambled for an answer.

“_You_ said you would investigate my insides with your mouth,” Zim accused. 

“Yeah, okay, I can do that,” Dib marked something off in pencil. “Anything else? Stuff you like? Stuff you super _don’t_ like?”

Zim rapped his claws against the table. An even worse question. He took a sip of the shake concoction and found that it was pleasantly tangy, sweet and thick. He took another sip. He had never been asked this before. He felt raw somehow, like skin subjected to radiation poisoning.

In the grand soup of his Zim-mind, a conception of self rose up to the surface. He thought of the compliance, of the expectation, the moderate and pleasing enthusiasm—of the way that even when he was being pinched and prodded and humiliated, he had been expected to remain… pliant. Serviceable.

He narrowed his eyes. “There is…” he said, “one thing…”

They crashed into the laboratory underneath the base approximately one second after the elevator doors opened, a tangle of grabbing and kicking, Dib lunging and Zim dancing backward into the magenta dimness. Zim had suggested they pick up where they left off earlier in the week, more or less.

“So how do you want me to be?” Dib had asked, in the maltshop, as they worked their way through their drinks. His research notes covered multiple pages now.

Zim had tilted his head. “Horrible and annoying,” he had said. “_Obviously_.”

In the chaos of all the mangled, half finished projects, Dib managed to roll Zim into something soft and cool—some half inflated jelly bag, he thought, although what it had been meant for was beyond him right then—glowing with a faint tangerine light. Dib’s hands slammed down against his wrists, pinning them into the giving jelly plush.

“Give it up, spaceboy,” Dib said, grinning and slightly unhinged in the orange glow. “It’s over.”

Zim wriggled, heels of his boots scraping and thrashing against Dib’s hips and thighs. Dib wasn’t fazed; they were much more savage with each other on a near weekly basis. Dib held him down until he’d worked off most of the adrenals from the chase across the lab floor. When he finally sagged back, panting, Dib let go of his wrists.

“I’m gonna take off your boots,” Dib said, and pushed one of Zim’s legs back until his knee met his middle. Zim watched through the corners of his eyes as Dib stripped off the boot and ran his hand down Zim’s ankle, marveling at the outline of the delicate joint under the skin.

He traced a thumb down, sending a little shiver up Zim’s back. “Huh,” Dib said, toying with a claw-tipped toe. “Three of these too.”

Zim shoved impatiently at his stomach with the still-booted foot, and Dib reluctantly moved over to his second research subject. A second boot hit the floor. Zim’s rarely exposed skin fizzled under Dib’s curious fingers.

“You still good with this?” Dib asked, as his hand smoothed down from ankle to the delicate tips of toes. “Leggings come next.”

Zim kicked him again. “Get on with it!” he demanded, delighted with his own bad attitude.

Dib scowled at him, but obliged anyhow.

On the walk back from the maltshop, Dib had admitted: “I haven’t actually done this before. Just so you know.” He was reviewing his case notes as they walked, having been driven away from the location by a classmate who overheard the discussion and had judged it “freaky” and “totally psycho to talk about in public”. Dib had appeared startled by the sudden negative attention, so Zim assumed it was another one of those local social mores that Dib seemed perpetually blind to, despite being a native.

“Of course you haven’t,” Zim had said. “You only recently achieved your new height.”

“No,” Dib said, “I mean—what?”

“You could not have initiated breeding at your previous height,” Zim said, “and you certainly would not have done so with some fragile stink beast when the glorious and attractive Zim was _right_ here.”

Dib lifted a finger, and then took a deep breath. “Height has absolutely nothing to do with it,” he said. “Why would—why would height have—I told you to stop saying _breeding!”_

Now, with the boots and the leggings discarded on the floor around their makeshift respite pile, Dib hovered uncertainly over what remained. His fingers reached, flinched back, and reached again more slowly for the hem of Zim’s uniform top. He chewed his lip.

“Okay,” he muttered. “Okay. Okay. It’s just—another experiment, I’ll just try one thing and if it doesn’t work I’ll just try another. How hard can it be?”

His hands, broad warm palms, settled over either of Zim’s thighs. They stroked slowly, first down, and then up—each time inching a little closer to the place hidden by Zim’s shirt, until his fingers were sliding underneath it. Underneath the shirt hem, Zim’s petals twitched.

Dib pushed the cloth back, bending down so that his sharp breaths clouded warmly against Zim’s bare hips. He traced the pointed tip of a petal that was just beginning to plump with arousal, finger dipping in to stroke the slick inside of it. Zim shuddered all over, pushing his hips up against the tentative touch.

His channel bloomed open, strings of lubricant snapping between the fat petals as they folded back and parted. Dib kept the tip of one gently pinched between his fingers, rubbing it as he observed.

“Wow,” Dib said, “that is… so god damn alien. Are you in control of that?”

“Autonomous,” Zim managed, overwhelmed by the deep hungry ache pooling under his skin where Dib was petting his exposed insides.

Dib curled a finger, rubbing at the rim of the channel, and Zim moaned greedily. He hooked an ankle around Dib’s back and urging him in closer.

“Gimme,” he panted, wriggling in Dib’s grip.

“What?” Dib said, barely paying attention. Zim reached out and pulled on his ear until he finally looked up.

“You,” Zim said, “you agreed to give me your mouth! So gimme it!”

“You’re really fixated on that,” Dib remarked, batting away Zim’s hand with a wince. “Has it been a while since anybody gave you oral or something?”

“No,” Zim said, as if Dib were stupid, which he was. “That’s not even a thing. You’re just making up words.”

Dib winced. “It’s definitely a thing,” he said. “Trust me. I’ve done the research.”

“Pfft. Like that so-called—”

And then Zim heaved a great, overwhelmed breath, clawing at the jelly glow beneath him. Dib had pulled that one petal down by the tip and pressed the broad flat of his tongue to it, licking up into the twitching, tightening rim beyond. The soft flesh rippled and clenched on nothing, chasing the tongue that was already retreating.

Zim let out a high pitched keening noise.

Dib touched his tongue with a finger and made a face. “Weird,” he said. “Not bad, I guess. Just. Weird. Is it supposed to be kind of minty?”

“Get back in there this second or I will cause your spine to implode inside your body,” Zim rasped.

Dib raised his eyebrows. “With _what_ spaceboy? You don’t even have any pants on right now.”

Zim let out an inarticulate cry of frustration and kicked his heels behind Dib’s back. Lubricant dribbled out of his hungry channel.

“Okay, okay, don’t murder me,” Dib said, and hooked either of this thumbs into the tender opening. Zim settled down at the reassuring pressure.

Dib dove back in, licking sweet hot swipes over the puffy folds. His lips closed over one petal tip and suckled while Zim arched and panted underneath him. Oh yes. This was good, this was _excellent_, this was what Zim deserved!

Little sucking kisses on the plumped inner flesh, deep licks into the center of the channel where Zim’s confused body was still expecting the blunt pressure of a breeding spike. Shiny streaks slicked Dib’s cheek and chin, although he barely paused to swipe the worst of it off before picking up where he left off again. He seemed nearly as enraptured by the tiny thrills of response underneath him as Zim was enraptured with the feeling of it.

And Zim was feeling a _lot_. Zim felt as if he was seeing everything through a magenta haze, fuzzy and strange and exquisite. His PAK was hot against his back, the nervous processor centers whirling to make sense of the data they were receiving.

“More,” he managed. “There—must be something more—”

Dib sucked thoughtfully on a throbbing petal. “Well,” he said, pulling off with a tiny _pop_, “I guess we could try this...”

And then he sank two fingers deep into the channel, lighting up the pit of Zim’s belly with more of that maddening ache. As his fingers slid free again, the soft segments of his odd pink fingers rubbed and rubbed against deliciously sensitive receptors.

When Dib went back to sucking at a petal on top of that, Zim let out a moan that was almost a shriek, burying his teeth in the edge of his mouth.

“Oh, I liked _that_,” Dib said. His wet cheek nuzzled against Zim’s clenching channel. “Let’s see if we can get you to do that again…”

Methodically, like the scientist he claimed not to be, Dib tortured each swollen petal with his wet tongue and his hot mouth, until Zim was aware of nothing but how close he was to _something_. His PAK was blazing hot against his spine. He had a vague memory of Miyuki, a dizzy wanting, and scrabbled up to take the base of one antenna in his fingers.

His finger slid up along the length of it, and the sensation—like something almost on the edge of hurting, something raw and pink and hot—vibrated through him so strongly that for a moment it was as if his PAK had dropped offline entirely and all that remained was his wetware bouncing one moment of pleasure off another until they were one long indistinguishable shudder within him.

He sucked in a sharp breath. He struck out and caught Dib by the wrist, bringing him to a sudden halt.

“S,” he said, “stop, wait, jussst—hold s,still—”

Dib pulled back, wiping his mouth with the back of one wrist. “Sure,” he said, breathless. “You having second thoughts or—oh, holy shit, did you come?”

“I think I overloaded my sensory processor,” Zim said blankly, staring up at the ceiling.

“That sounds like coming to me!” Dib said. “Yes! Mark one down as success for Earth.” He sat back on his heels, insufferably pleased with himself. Zim would certainly knock that smug look off his horrible little face, just as soon as… his limbs stopped being full of jelly.

Everything had taken on a pleasantly sore buzz, as if his very bones had become an echo chamber of that vibration.

He was both vividly and distantly aware of his channel folding itself back up, sealing tightly as if to hold inside the genetic material that would typically have been spilled long before this point in the proceedings. It did feel weird, closing up like that when his inner walls weren’t even a little bruised from receiving a spike. Without the fullness of spilled liquid.

Oh. Hm. He hadn’t been spiked.

“I hope you’re not expecting to get your breeding apparatus wet after that, Dib creature. I’m not gonna open back up for at least a day.”

Dib cocked his head. “Really? That’s a long refractory period. Is that because of the—”

“Enough questions!” Zim interrupted, whacking his shoulder for emphasis.

“Ow,” Dib complained, rubbing his shoulder for emphasis. “I just wanted some data, it’s not that difficult to answer a question!”

“Shhh,” Zim ordered him, and then lashed out to grab him by the collar. “Come down here. Zim is cold.”

“Really?” Dib said, testing his belly with two fingers. “You feel kind of—whoa!”

With a firm yank, Zim sent him crashing down into the jelly plush. In truth, Zim was curious what it would feel like to be held after such an encounter, by someone who wasn’t his blasted drill sergeant. He could already tell that this was a much more satisfying situation.

There was something against his thigh that didn’t feel quite normal. He scrunched up his face and ground down into it a little, trying to figure out what it was.

Dib sucked in a sharp breath. “Hey, whoa, don’t do that,” he said. “That’s, um, that’s…”

“That’s your spike,” Zim said, more a conclusion than a question. It was surprisingly giving and attached in a weird way, but the placement was unmistakable.

“Actually on a human it’s called—_oh my god_, Zim, jesus, you’re killing me.”

Zim purred. “Excellent. You may proceed with begging for your life, worm.”

Dib’s hands clutched tight into Zim’s shirt and he buried his face in the smaller shoulder. His hard little gasps came in noisy over his bitten lip. Zim rocked into the needy place between Dib’s thighs, and Dib ground helplessly against him.

“Mmmnph.”

“That’s right,” Zim said, grabbing at Dib’s lower back to hold him in place, to keep him from escaping. “You want Zim, of course you do. You may have your reward, yess, for serving me so well.”

Dib’s panting started to take on a desperate throaty quality, a little _hhhk_ or _ahh_ with every breath.

The rocking grew more and more desperate, until Zim barely had to do anything but hold the pressure while Dib ground himself down onto bare thigh, blind frantic humping that filled Zim with gleeful satisfaction. He felt a little warm again, actually—not uncomfortably so, but enough to appreciate the way Dib’s hip pressed against his closed channel.

Dib—what was the term—Dib came, at last, with a sudden jerk and a muffled exclamation, face buried in Zim’s shoulder, hands wound tight in his shirt. There was a moment of hard tension, and then total boneless relief.

“Oh,” Dib said, muzzily. “Oh, okay.”

There was some dampness happening, but Zim generously chose not to acknowledge it. As long as it didn’t burn him, he was too comfortable to arrange a re-positioning.

He gave Dib a condescending pat on the shoulder. “Adequate.”

“Oh, shut up,” Dib grumbled into his neck. “You’ve never even come before, you don’t get to act like some sexpert now.”

Zim squinted at the back of Dib’s head. “I am certainly more experienced than—”

“Shhhhh,” Dib said, swatting blindly at Zim’s arm. “Just. Shh. Five minutes.”

Zim eyed him. He was disgusting and warm and vexing and soft and utterly alien and big enough to hold Zim inside his curled form like a bite of delicious pudding in a spoon.

Hmm. Well. Five minutes, perhaps. He could belay the return of hostilities for five minutes. After all, he was quite comfortable.


End file.
